


Disturbing London baby, we about to branch out

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alley Blow Jobs, Alternate Universe - British, British Slang, Casual Sex, Class Differences, Derogatory Language, Dirty Talk, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Face-Fucking, London, M/M, Masturbation, Podfic Welcome, Public Sex, Sexting, Size Difference, Size Kink, Small Penis, chav!Stiles, implied infidelity, implied prostitution, teacher!Peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4870311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is a nice grown up English lecturer, Stiles is a delinquent that butchers the English language. They find a way to communicate all the same. Set in England, in case you didn’t notice. </p><p>[Don't be fooled by the summary, this is definitely porn]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [We Can Do This Until We Pass Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/209225) by [delires](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: FOUL LANGUAGE. All of the worst words ever. Also, many words may not be fully understandable to those who aren’t English and/or haven’t been to a council estate. Don’t worry though, Peter also doesn’t understand everything Stiles is saying. 
> 
> I had the urge to write this after writing so many US based fics and having to edit all my own words to sound American, I just had the urge to splurge out some proper London chav chat. The spiritual influence of this fic is delires' chav!verse Inception fic. Although it mostly just the name and the fact we both know that Soho is one of the few places to get your gay-on in London.
> 
> See end notes for spoiler-warnings.

“I swear down blud, I swear fuckin’ down, I’ll bust your gob in you fuckin’ cunt if you say that to me again. Innit yeah -”

Peter was not where he wanted to be. In fact, he wasn’t even completely certain how he got here.

“-You get me blud. I aint playin’ ya’ man. Y’startin’? I said, _you startin_ ’?”

At some point during the evening where he was meeting with some fellows from his University days (“University College London, if you must know”) one of them thought it’d be a brilliant idea to go revisit some of their past haunts.

“Alrite, alrite. This is gettin’ dog man, you can all fuck off.”

Which was okay when they were at the Lyceum, chewing the fat about the hijinks that occurred in rivalry against King’s College London University that sat across the Strand. But when Hugo suggested they took this trip down memory lane quite literally into Soho… That was when things went a bit pear shaped.

“What the fuck ‘you starin’ at. Wait, you got a light?”

The miscreant that had been in dispute with some of his posse had finally splintered from them, and had cast eyes around looking for something else to take his attention. This appeared to be Peter.

“Of course.” He answered with a slightly bored drawl.

He wasn’t entirely bored though, because what had peeked his interest about this foul mouthed delinquent over all the other maleducated degenerates, was the content of the dispute. Namely, that this reprobate had been embroiled in a discussion about a rumoured ‘blow job’ to a _boy_ called Aiden.

“Fuck off. What’ya doin’ here with that fuck off posh boy accent old man?”

It was hard to tell if the teen was facing backlash from homophobia from his friends - this was Soho, but the boy was obviously from the inner city backwaters - or if it was _who_ he was seen with, seeing how the blow-job-ee belonged to a different concrete tribe that criss crossed London like a half blinded granny attempting Peter’s Highschool tartan.

“I found my company rather boring, and decided to check out the scenery.”

The boy had quick clever eyes that darted up and down Peter, pausing a few times at his pockets, before an almost predatory grin spread on the younger boy’s face.

“You not from these ends then?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Peter’s lips, and a few warm bursts of laughed spilt out his chest - eased by the scotch he’d been drinking all night - before he finally returned his own eyes to the teen.

“Darling, I have been down these ends more times that you can imagine.” His voice was smoky and rich, stage whispering in the loud and overcrowded smoking area they were communing in,  causing the boy to inch closer to catch all the words.

It had the desired effect, the younger man’s eyes had dilated slightly, and he sucked a few more drags of the cigarette into his mouth, before throwing the mostly dead butt on the floor.

“I get you. I get you. Let’s scarper. You get me?”

The incessant littering of bastardised English was beginning to set Peter’s teeth on edge, but the prospect of reliving some of the better aspects of Soho nightlife enticed Peter to nod.

“Oh, I get you.”

The boy began walking to the exit, but made a sharp right instead, and walked decisively down the side of the enclosed space, before coming to a gate with a bouncer standing in front of it. He gave the man a nod, and pulled out a small plastic bag that contained something reasonably illegal (Class C most probably, party pills at best, but most likely just weed) that the man took without blinking, and stepped forward to allow the slighter boy to ease open the opaque gate metal gate. The teen looked over his shoulder and jolted his head forward, motioning Peter to follow.

It was an alleyway. “This is an alleyway…a fucking grim as fuck alleyway,” stated Peter.

“Yeah-wot, you fuckin’ ponce, you lookin’ for a hotel or sumthin’?”

The boy had already pulled off his rather dire looking hooded jumper, and now stood in nothing but a loose vest that hung from his lithe body. The image was enough to distract Peter from the vile surroundings. 

“That’s very loaded language from someone who is about to have my prick inside them,” Peter crooned, sliding a hand around the shorn skull of the boy and forcing him to tip his head up so they could keep eye contact.

“Fuckin’ hell. Alrite, Mr John Fucking Thomas…are you gonna’ kiss me?”

“No. I do want your name though.”

“Why? You a fuckin’ pig or sumthin’?”

Peter slid a leg between the boy’s and enjoyed the friction of pushing his prick into the soft flesh of thigh, letting the mood between them become lighter now that mutual satisfaction had been shown firmly on the cards.

“No. I just don’t want to have to moan out ‘dickhead I met in Soho’ when I finally cum inside you.”

The boy barked out a laugh, his eyes gleaming with amusement. He turned his head to the left slightly, allowing him to nip and kiss at the hand still gripping his head, before saying.

“Call me Stiles.”

“That is not a name.”

“It’s all you’re gettin'. Or at least, all you’re gettin’ if you’re plannin’ on gettin sum. You get me?”

“Fine.” Peter bit out, just as Stiles turned his head further to let him fully engulf two of Peter’s fingers into the wet heat of his mouth.

It was enjoyable letting Stiles suck tightly at them for a few moments, before Peter pushed the boy against the wall of the alley, and fucked his fingers into the mouth harshly a few times in tandem with grinding his crotch harder against the abysmal black jogging trousers the youth was wearing.

His fingers were sodden in seconds, and he enjoyed the little choked noises he elicited from the boy. It was an act he wanted to repeat with a slightly more turgid member.

“You’re going to keep that fucking awful mouth of yours busy now,” he growled, slipping his fingers free and pushing Stiles down to his knees, “You get me?” he finished, with a particularly sardonic lilt.

Stiles, to his merit, went straight to unbuckling his Huntsman’s trousers, and threading out Peter’s prick from the slit on the man’s boxers.

The boy mouthed wetly at the tip, muttering, “I knew you were a massive dick,” before stretching his lips around Peter’s girth. Peter let him take control for a while, enjoying the way Stiles put both hands around the remaining inches of his cock, jacking the erection into his mouth, and allowing Peter’s foreskin to catch on his lips every time he pushed it back inside.

As the clouded feeling of intoxication finally lifted enough that Peter could feel a hint of his climax on the horizon, he manhandled the boy back so his head was against the slightly dank stone wall, and caged the teen in by placing his own arms against the brick for stability.

Like this he could thrust his hips forward, Stiles’ head nowhere to go, but to allow Peter’s prick to force itself further inside on each stab forward. The boy was making those squirmish noises again, sucking air in coltishly each time Peter moved backwards, only for his throat to gulp compulsively around the intrusion again a moment later.

It was fucking heaven. Peter let himself go, jackknifing inside with little consideration for the delinquent's comfort, suddenly wishing that the boy had hair long enough to grip and maneuver with.

“That’s it darling. Fuck, you little slut. Yes, yes, yes.” Liquid pleasure pooled in him, and he erratically dove inside the teen’s mouth another few times, ensuring that his prick was fully inside as he came. When his cock finally stopped pulsing, Peter continued to grind his pelvis against the boy’s lips for a few moments, enjoying the sensation of soft bruised lips against his pubic hair, and the uncomfortable squirms of the boy beneath him.

Finally he let off the pressure, and pulled out; cupping his prick as he did, to wipe off the smear of spit and cum, so as to not overly soil his underwear when he put himself back inside.

Stiles however was quick to bring his hand to his mouth and spat purposely into his own hand, while pushing down his tracksuit bottoms and boxers with the other, so he could use the foul mixture as lubrication over his own erection.

It was a pretty sight, which Peter’s now spent penis still gave an empathetic twitch to.

Peter dragged the boy up, unsurprised as the teen instantly sagged against the wall, and took the slighter man’s prick in his hand.

“Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah you fuckin sket-” Stiles was spitting, his expression blissed and his eyes closed, “-that’s it you fuckin’ toff”.

Peter rolled his eyes at the constant litany of the butchered tongue, picking up the pace and swiping his thumb into the slit at the tip of Stiles’ cock.

Second later Stiles keened, his hips making a few abortive thrusts upwards, as he came all over Peter’s hand. Finally done, the boy collapsed backwards, seemingly ignorant to Peter’s disgusted expression at the mess that had occurred in his hand, and uncaring about the man’s decision to wipe it on the boy’s vest.

Peter patted Stiles’ pocket and got out his box of cigarettes, which finally roused the boy. With a quick grin, and those all too clever eyes open again, the boy showfully patted Peter’s own pocket in retaliation to retrieve his lighter.

“Give me twos,” the boy slurred, when he lit the cigarette hanging from Peter’s mouth.

Peter shook his head, he needed a full cigarette. And he was awarded when a pout appeared on Stiles’ lips. “Alrite, at least come ‘ere and cherry it,” whined the slighter boy, dragging Peter close enough that the tip of his lit cigarette could burn the end of Stiles’ unlit one.

It was the closest they had come to kissing all night.

Stiles smirked at him through a few drags, before wiping off the last of muck from his hands on his vest, pulling the thing over his head and threw it onto one of the nearby bin bags - clearly enjoying Peter’s appreciative glances at his now bare chest - before sliding out between the man and the wall and grabbing his earlier discarded hoodie.

“Right so. Let’s fuck off then. See ya - cunt,” he said, all lip, teeth, and grins in Peter’s direction, before pushing the gate they had previously entered through open slightly, and sidled through the gap.

Peter laughed again, warm and hysterical. It was ridiculous, really. Enjoyable, but deplorable. He turned 180 degrees, decidedly not following Stiles’ back into the club’s smoking area, and instead followed the alley out into the street, so he could catch the Number 10 back to Kensington.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter discovers that Stiles had pilfered his phone when he gets home and hits the answer machine for his landline when passing through the hall, only to hear the words, “Fuckin’ bellend, BRAP!” echo against the walls.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Warning: This fic has the word 'cunt' in it, used in a 'lighthearted' way by the character. This fic isn't suggesting that this word is fine to use casuaully, it just highlights the fact that Brits use this word A LOT. 
> 
> Also, the sex is reasonably rough.  
> Face-fucking is introduced without prior communication. But everything is very consensual (Stiles could definitely do some damage if something started happening that he didn't approve of).
> 
> Also, Stiles is still a teen, but he is definitely over age. I imagine him about 18 (just) which is legal to go out drinking in bars here in London. Plus the age of consent is 16 here, so Stiles has been legally sexually active for at least 2 years. 
> 
> \-----  
> I am happy to put a glossary of terms people might not know.  
> "Vest" = like a tank top.  
> "Sket" = variation of slut  
> "Toff" = posh person  
> "brapp" - onomatopoeic sound for gunfire, meant to be celebratory. Is used in a variety of ways.
> 
>  
> 
> \-----  
> Wow! That's a lot of notes for one chapter.  
> And thank you [DenaCeleste](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DenaCeleste/pseuds/DenaCeleste) for the Beta help.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! And yes, there is another chapter on the way, I just thought this made a good stand alone item as well.  
> Comments and kudos please, they help Peter de-stress after all the dropped Gs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finds it difficult to shake the memory of a certain hookup from the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thanks everyone who is so super interested in this fic. You've helped fuelled another chapter out of me straight away. (Well, a day or so).   
> I've updated the index from the previous chapter on a few words non-Brits said they didn't know, feel free to get in touch if this chapter needs a glossary too.  
> Also, you may note that this chapter is MUCH longer than the first. Most of my fics are like that. Chapter one is "a scene" and the plot spools from there.  
> There are about hundred people I want to thank for encouraging me on this fic. When they all come online & give me permission to write their name, I'll add a list.   
> See end for spoiler-warnings.

Peter wakes in his bed with a revengeful hangover. The clubs he had been induced to frequent last night did not stock his regular calibre of scotch, leaving his head burning with resentment over the artificial colourants and flavours that he had ingested.

Although affecting his pain management viscerally, the alcohol did not however appear to tamper with his memories…. Which was a blessing and a curse in some ways.

Peter could remember exactly what a foul mouthed little shit Stiles was, and just how much of a bad idea it was entangling himself with someone so obviously volatile.

Peter cracks a rueful grin at the pure ridiculousness of Stiles having his phone - thankfully it wasn’t his work phone with all the important information on it - but it still put him in the position that the boy wasn’t just an impulsive hookup that whim to relive his youth caused.

Sighing, Peter left his bed and tottered to the kitchen to put on his espresso machine. Coffee was definitely needed. He picked up his phone and shot out a text.

To ~~Peter - Home~~ Reprobate: When you inevitably sell my phone to some other miscreant, please remember to wipe my details first.

It was 9am, and although Peter would prefer the idea of going back to bed, he settled himself in his office to begin marking essay papers done by his first year students. He had engrossed himself in using a red ink pen and mercilessly correcting the spelling, grammar and punctuation, when his phone trilled.

It was now past noon, and Peter was planning to get some lunch.

From Reprobate: who says im gona sell it wasteman

From Reprobate: u gna do sumtin bout it?

The crassness of the textspeak was too much for Peter’s recovering head, he instantly felt more empathy for his undergrad students and their clear attempts to master English.

Peter begun chopping up some onions and mushrooms to make a hot salad for lunch, mindlessly throwing what vegetables he had in the fridge into a wok, while selecting some chicken breast to sear in a pan.

His phone trilled a third time.

From Reprobate: says u want it bk wots in it 4 me?

To Reprobate: Let me think... I could always not report you to the police?

From Reprobate: no rong answer

To Reprobate: I could politely fail to mention you bringing drugs into an establishment last night?

From Reprobate: ur shit @ this

To Reprobate: And what exactly is 'this'?

From Reprobate: idk ur spose to say ill give you cash or send me a dick pic blatz man

To Reprobate: Of course, those two options really do readily come to mind when negotiating the return of my own property.

Peter returned to his cooking, he did however keep his phone on the counter, unwittingly eager to hear the next classless reply.

10 or so minutes later he had finished cooking and had moved into the lounge area with his food. He had collapsed onto the sofa and was picking at his food while flicking through the news channels on his television by the time the reply came.

From Reprobate: if ur shy i can start u off thnx 2 a swanky new fone i got

To Reprobate: *My phone, remember. This is about me retrieving it.

From Reprobate: i think u lyk me havin it.

The photo attached was atrocious. Stiles' face wasn't in it, even though he had the phone up in the air at an angle pointing down at his chest. His polo shirt was shoved up under his arms, displaying his flat dusky nipples, and the hairless chest that ran lithe - more skinny than toned -  down his rib cage, shadows bringing the dips of his figure into sharp relief. Stiles had deep set Vs cut into his hips, enunciated by the fact that the teen had also pushed down his tracksuit trousers, to display a very erect prick hovering adjacent to his body.

Peter's erection throbbed into life, filling out his trousers, causing the man to shift in his seat due to the sudden pressure. He groaned, pushing his palm into it, before rearranging himself, and sending a text back.

To Reprobate: I think someone enjoyed themselves so much last night they decided to come begging for another round.

From Reprobate: fuck u wasteman i swear down u chattin shit.

Peter idly considers jerking off to the picture, it was not in his best interests to keep the conversation going, but seeing how he already had the photo, it wouldn’t really make any difference.

He slid his hand into his trousers, and pinch at the foreskin around the tip of his prick, feeling his erection firm up in response. Fuck it was a shame he had never gotten a proper look - or feel - of the boy’s arse last night.

“This is ridiculous,” he says abruptly. Regretfully removing his hand and setting his phone aside. His erection is still throbbing distractingly, Peter could feel the slight dampness from the tip now cooling on the material of his underwear. He tensed his stomach a few times, to enjoy the feel of his prick rub against the material of his jeans, before groaning and undoing the buttons.

With one hand he picked the phone back up and opened the photo, his eyes darting at the glistening pink tip of Stiles’ prick peeking through his foreskin, while his left hand clutched at his own erection giving it a few pulls through his boxers before he gripped it proper.

Stiles’ lips were just visible at the top of the photo, dragged open in a grin, a glimpse of teeth apparent. It brought up instant memories of the sight of Peter’s prick breaching those puppy lips from the night before. Forcing Stiles’ to stretch his jaw to accommodate the girth of Peter’s erection, accompanied by the little mewls the boy made every time the intrusion slid a little too far back into his gullet.

Peter pushed down his underwear, letting his legs stretch out along the sofa, as he jostled his hips up into the tight fist he’d made around his erection. He gripped himself hard, the drops of precum easing the movement, trying to mimic the feel he had experienced the night before.

“ _Fuck_.” he groaned, the taste of nicotine suddenly on his lips, as he glanced again at the stark cuts of flesh that were Stiles’ abdominal muscles in the photo. The teen was _so fucking skinny_ , for all his snark and violent obscenities, the boy was lithe as fuck. Like a pen knife, honed down to all sharp edges and 0% body fat, the urge for Peter to dig his fingers into the boy’s barely-there waist was palpable.

If Peter had him there now, he’d drag the boy on top of him, one hand gripping the vicious little hands behind the boy’s back, the other gripping at those hips, dragging the teen down onto his cock.

Peter was jerking himself at a maddening pace now. His thumb sliding his foreskin over the ridge of his head, intimating the feel of puffy flesh that would be the boy’s hole.

Another glance at that shiny little prick in the photo, winking up him with promise, is all that he needed to push him over the edge. “Fuck-FUCK,” he groaned, his hips jolting up as warm cum spilt out his cock and pulsed over the fist he’d made over his erection.

It took Peter a couple of moments to calm down, squeezing his still throbbing prick a few times, before finally letting it go. He didn’t notice that he’d slammed his eyes shut at the last moment, but the image of him fucking the boy was definitely still on his mind, and in realising this he let out a bemused laugh.

“I need to get a grip,” he whispered to himself, dropping his phone to the floor, “one little chav twink in Soho should  _not_ be so appealing”.

He did not, however, make any move to delete the photo.

 

* * *

 

 

It was two days later when Peter finally felt his curiosity piqued enough to text Stiles again. Although, it was probably more accurate to say that boredom has finally stricken him to the extent that making bad communication decisions felt favourable: Peter was in one of the monthly staff meetings and 'socials' that his University arranged that encouraged interdisciplinary connections between the institution.

Peter didn't particularly enjoy his fellow English scholars, why anyone thought he was going to appreciate discussing the flavours of the month in research with the Classics department, was utterly beyond him. One of the department heads was doing a presentation on how the field of literature could benefit from the recent research into Classics. Peter had been mostly silent during the thing, scowling into his wine (red, and definitely not rich enough for tolerating the current company) and biting out scathing comments whenever someone dared to directly ask his opinion on the topic.

This is not what he envisioned when picturing himself at the forefront of scholarly research. Peter had always imagined achieving stable position at a Russell group London University would facilitate innovation in his field; open him up to exciting new opportunities in the area he specifically loved (Etymological history of the English language and its affiliation to socio-political change) with hundreds of students and co-workers eager to help him. The reality was that he was embroiled in department jerking off sessions, endless parading and pissing contests for the University league tables, and the actual students were more likely to cause him an aneurysm before helping.

There were a couple of Post Graduates he tolerated enough to let him near his research papers. (Kira for one, Kali too if she didn’t keep swanning off to talk sociology with Deucalion  in the social sciences building). And fewer still coworkers he favoured (liked was not really a word he wished to use), Lydia - who hated him as much as she respected him, which was probably why he enjoyed her company - who oversaw the translations department of the school was one of that minority. She had been in this meeting for a whole of 10 minutes before she bowed out, promising a "I heard Dr. Hale had some very enlightening comments on how to better cross departmental affiliation" as she slipped through the door, casting him a maddeningly evil smirk as she went.

It was the socialising part of the evening when Peter finally opened his phone and reviewed his previous communication with the boy. His finger hovered over the photo attachment, and he tempted himself to open it again. Instead, he opted for shooting a message.

To Reprobate: I have found myself returning to the idea of you sending me photographs. Perhaps the next one could involve something in your mouth...?

It was impulsive, and slightly too crass for his liking, but he found it difficult to regret when merely moments later he received a notification in reply.

From Reprobate: sum1 beggin 4 nother round?

The words were satisfyingly sarcastic, but it was the photo he was more pleased by.

Stiles was - unfortunately - fully clothed this time. His lips however had a rolled cigarette between them. The bottom lip was pursed, and the camera had snapped the exact moment the boy had dragged in a breath of smoke, his cheeks hollowed devilishly, drawing attention up to the carved cheek bones, littered liberally with moles. Stiles eyes were also in this photo, crinkled slightly in pleasure, as smug and dangerous as always, honeyed pupils staring straight out at Peter.

To Reprobate: To recreate the image I was hoping for, something a little larger may be needed.

The reply took 10 minutes to arrive, in which time Peter had been drawn into a stifling conversation with one of his peers. After the third time he checked his phone (which was creating a satisfying tick in the man who was trying to bore him to death) Peter casually mentioned, "Oh, I am sorry if I am coming across as rude. I was hoping for results from a research assignment I sent a student on."

"Oh, of course! Students are so unreliable these days. It's not like when we were undergraduates at Oxford, what was it again, Regent's Park you were in?"

"Brasenose," Peter corrected, "for my undergraduate, I left for UCL to complete my masters."

"Of course, that's right. You should have joined us over at St Johns!" The man said with a stuffy fake laugh. Peter just managed to bite his lip through the comment, everyone at St Johns were rich overbearing twats, but it wasn't the best time to mention that.

“It was good for me to leave Oxford,” the place was fucking suffocating, “UCL allowed me to switch my focus from Literature to Language, and of course, allowed me to end up working at the establishment today.”

“Har-har” Peter had considered murdering people for less than the state of that man’s laugh, “well, I guess I should count myself lucky you made the switch then, as allowed us to be in the same place today!”

“Quite.” His phone trilled again, and he cupped it in his pocket. “Ah, that will be the student, I do apologise.”

He skulked off to the table holding the wine, and liberally replenished his glass when opening up the message.

From Reprobate: dis joggin ne memories blud? u even gna giv bck doe?

Peter isn’t even completely certain what it is, other than it’s navy blue, thick, and long enough that Stiles has a few inches on it in his mouth and still some way to go. “Fuck.” Peter swears, barely quiet enough to hide the obscenity, hitting the lock button on his phone, and turning to find his departmental head.

“Alan, I’m heading off. Thank you, as always, for including me in these little swareys.” They both know Peter is lying, primarily because Peter motioned hanging himself when Mr. Deaton had popped by his office to _remind_ Peter that the social was occurring that evening and that his presence was _non-negotiable_ , but they both let is pass for politeness sake in front of the present company.

“Really Peter, you can’t stay until Mr. Harris has had a chance to speak? His presentation on the growing interest of Classics and English as an undergraduate degree is quite illuminating.”

Peter would rather drown himself in his wine than hear that talk, and that’s without the prospect of jerking off over a slutty chav twink.

“No, I actually do need to go, I received a text from a colleague who requires a hand this evening.”

Alan gave him a doubtful look, “You’re making friends with staff here at the University?”

“Gosh no!” He says with a self deprecating laugh, “Outside colleague, knows no one else I’ve even spoken to before, knows I would never invite him here.” It wasn’t even an outright lie, Stiles’ did roughly fit into that description.

Alan nodded, now less suspicious that Peter wasn’t suggesting that he had become amiable to the notion of befriending co-workers. “Well, I was hoping you would stay for a little longer Peter…”

“Let me leave now, and I promise to show up in my room during office hours so students can speak to me for the whole of next week.” Peter quipped, trying his hand at bribery.

“You’ll be in your office on both days, and you’ll give answers more thorough than links to ‘Let Me Google That For You’” Alan drawled, fixing Peter with an unimpressed look.

It was proof just how much Peter wanted to get a proper look at that photo that he agreed without reducing the terms, before spinning around, snatching a full bottle of wine from the table, and leaving the room.

The office in question sounded like the perfect place for adequate privacy at this time, and Peter jogged down the stairs towards it at pace.

Finally, when inside - the door locked and blinds closed - Peter slides into his desk chair a retrieves his phone again.

The photo is as obscene as it was the first time. Now that Peter has a moment to appreciate it, he can see the strain in Stiles’ jaw as he tries to accommodate the space. The boy is topless now, and he has once again taken the photo from a high angle - this time it enunciates his cheekbones by the light catching on them - but it’s his eyes that jump out significantly to Peter. They stare up at the camera, in what he is sure Stiles’ aimed for defiant, but instead just looks _hopeful_ , like the boy is positively begging to get his mouth fucked.

To Reprobate: Push your trousers down, bend over, and take a photo in a mirror. Keep that thing in your mouth.

From Reprobate: Nah fam u 1st u had 3 of me.

Peter growls in frustration, coming very close to just taking his prick out and sending the photo, it’d be worth it. He positively glowed at the thought of Stiles’ playing with his prick over the sight of Peter holding his own. But Peter didn’t manage to maintain an unblemished reputation by allowing his indiscretions to leave a paper trail…

He flicked back to his gallery, opening all three photos in turn, palming his clothed erection as he did. His head weighing up two very bad decisions and deciding which one would accompany less collateral.

To Reprobate: Where are you right now?

From Reprobate: Mile end bout 2g2 brixton

To Reprobate: Don’t. Get the tube to Russell Square, and meet me at the Premier Inn on Duke’s road.

It was a cheap(ish) chain hotel that had countless establishments throughout London, an indiscrete coupling wouldn’t be noticeable, and the fact that Stiles’ looks like he’s more likely there to rob someone than pay for a night, would go down better there than if he tried a more eloquent venue.

From Reprobate: swear down? u 4real fam?

To Reprobate: Text me when you come out at Russell Square, I’ll give you the details for the room I’ll be in.

The response was another photo, Stiles was wearing a t-shirt again, and his smile was infectiously broad. He was holding his hand up to his face, his fingers bent crassly into the shape of a gun, that he had framing his jaw. The actual content of the message contained only the word:

From Reprobate: brapp! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Spoilers] Warnings:  
> Not much here, mostly swearing and references to sexual acts.
> 
> Thank you again! I hope you enjoyed the update. To non-Brits, how are you finding the Britishism? To fellow Brits, how are you enjoying a fic that actually describes London accurately?  
> (Like, for example, I had Peter pick Russell Square over Euston, even though Euston is closer to UCL because changing to Euston from the Central Line that Mile End is on is a nightmare and the walk is nothing from UCL to Russell Square).
> 
> Give me all your comments and kudos please, they help fund Stiles' nicotine habit and collection of adidas trainers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the incredibly long sex scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit longer to write as it's pretty much all sex, and I had to some how thread plot in through it. 
> 
> See end for spoiler-warnings.
> 
> Also, I decided to keep the double spacing this time round. Do you think it works?

Peter didn’t bother with niceties when Stiles stepped into the hotel room. The boy had barely uttered a cocky “what's guanine?” as he dropped the door key to the floor and Peter already had him up against the door.

He crowded in on him, tipping Stiles’ head to the side so he could bite his teeth into the ligaments of the boy’s neck. The teen got with the program quickly, gyrating against Peter, and hissing with pleasure as Peter determinedly made marks on the slighter boy’s neck.

“You bin thinkin’ bout doin’ that?” the boy slurred through another particularly hard bite, “tryna’ mark your territory or sumthin’?”

Peter finally let the abused flesh go, moving to allow himself to get under the material of Stiles’ repugnant Nikey hoodie. “I’m mostly hoping if I bite hard enough you won’t be able to speak anymore and end the abuse of my poor ears with your lexical massacre.”

Stiles was panting, whining through each breath in, now that Peter had his hands on his flesh, and could grip the boy’s hips well enough that he could maneuver them against one another in a way that stimulated both their erections.

“Nah fam. You’d miss it. Innit yeah, you get fuckin’ wrecked on it.”

Peter decided it was for the best not to answer that insinuation. Instead he tugged off the jumper all together—barely glancing at the t-shirt that went with it—giving him access to the entirety of the boy’s chest.

Peter knew he had a predilection for skinny twinks, but Stiles was fucking lithe. Now that he was able to dust his fingers over the deep rivulets of barely-there muscles, which fluttered inwards with each of the boy’s breaths, he had to admit that his size kink had quadrupled dangerously.

He only noticed that he’d stopped to just stare when Stiles’ whined in frustration, “Take a picture, yeah? It lasts fuckin’ longer. I already sent you like thousands, just get on with—”

Peter pushed him down to the floor by his shoulders, bringing his clothed erection close to the boy’s face as he undid the buttons. He was very amiable to the idea of keeping his trousers on, hoping the zip would press into the boy’s lips and cause furious little marks, but they had the room to themselves, so it was worth taking advantage of the privacy.

Adeptly, he pulled off his own shirt—enjoying the way Stiles’ eyes darted up at him and drank in the sight, clearly pleased with what was available to him—before pushing down his jeans and underwear in one go.

Finally he was going to recreate the image he had been thinking of over the past week.

“Give me your hands.” He ordered. Stiles obliged, giving him a curious look, and ensured his fingers knocked into Peter’s weeping erection as he raised his hands above his head.

Peter took hold of the wrists and pinned them to the wall high above Stiles’ head. This meant his own hands weren’t free to guide his prick into the filthily-wet mouth in front of him, leading to his prick dragging messily against the boy’s lips and chin—smearing precum as it went—a few times, before Stiles angled his mouth right, and the head popped through the cherry-pink red lips in front of him.

“Fuck yes.” Peter sighed, working his prick back and forth so he could catch his foreskin on those lips, stimulating the most sensitive part of his prick on the pouty ridges of Stiles’ mouth.

He looked down at the teen. Stiles’ eyes were closed, his cheeks sucked in not unlike the photograph of the boy smoking he had received days before. Peter lost himself in the sight of just the tip disappearing inside that mouth, again, and again. It was a glorious image, Stiles’ mouth trembling around him, warm rippling pleasure slipping up to his spine each time the head of his prick caught just right, driving him to thrust again, and again, en masse.

It felt like he could do just this for hours, edging himself and building his orgasm slowly, but alas, something snapped in him when Stiles’ eyes popped opened and met his own gaze.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Peter swore, gripping the hands he had pinned in front of him, while also shoving his hips forward in a sharp jab at the shocking gaze of the slighter boy. Peter had thought it was the lips, or maybe the skinny twink-like body that had caught and held his attention, but now he knew: it was those eyes. Those wicked darting eyes, that swallowed up the focus of the boys face, flickering about and taking in information quicker than even his constant running-mouth could output.

The shock, and thrusting forward that came with it, had him knocking his prick down Stiles' throat. Accompanied by Stiles' now-trademark mewls of when he had just a little bit too much in his mouth, Peter could feel his orgasm chasing him.

"Yeah, that's it. You look so good on my prick. You could suck it for hours, couldn't you. I could keep you here all night just swallowing me down. Yes, yes, fuck, yes." He'd wanted to hold out for longer, but it was too much now. Pleasure rippled up him in a tidal wave, slinking up his spine as his balls jumped tightly to his body. He could literally feel his cum slip up through his cock and pump steadily into the boy’s mouth. "Yes, yes, fuck yes." he kept murmuring.

He wanted the boy to swallow properly. Dragging the arms in front of him higher so Stiles' mewled in distress, Peter pressed his prick even deeper. "That's it. Swallow me down. Swallow me all down."

Stiles' eyes had flicked open again, and he indignantly glanced at the man, swallowing theatrically around the pick in his mouth, the effect of which almost caused Peter's nerves to give out.

Finally, only when the sensitivity was too much, did Peter step back, walking straight to his bag—uncaring of his nudity—to grab what he wanted: namely, lube.

"Get on the bed, and take off those vile trousers."

Stiles had a to cough a little bit before speaking, but he was back to his usual energy in seconds, "These are reebok originals fam. Swear down they're real."

He was playing with the elasticated top of them, dragging the string down a few times, to give Peter a glance of his scant pubic hair.

"I wouldn't give a fuck if they were Ralph fucking Lauren right now—get them off, and get on the bed."

"Piss off, you got bare tings to shout about blud.”

The thought that maybe Stiles' was a bit nervous of what was about to happen between them flickered through Peter's head. The boy was young, but had quite clearly been around the block a few times, but if it was difficult to tell if this was regular inane drabble spilling from his mouth, or nervous rambling...

Just in case, he walked up to the boy who was now kneeling up on the bed, keeping his eyes tracking all of Peter's movements, and dragged a hand through the barely-there stubble of Stiles' head of hair.

"I'm going to fuck you, are you on board with that?"

"Yeah fam’, ‘course."

"Of course... You've been rimmed before right?"

Stiles' eyes bugged a little at the offer, but nodded his head all the same. "Yeah, yeah I have -a bit."

"A bit... You're fine with me doing it now?"

"Yeah, fuck, yeah I want it. Just, not much time for that shit when you're fucking in some club, you get me?"

Peter suddenly did get him, very, very clearly. Stiles was definitely nothing close to a virgin—and had probably had more exhibitionist sex than Peter had had in his whole life, but, that didn't mean he had any experience of _good_ sex.

"Yeah, that's fine. Lie down on your stomach."

It was a mixture of endearing and straight up awful that Stiles had taken up a slight deer-in-headlights attitude shift during the affair. But it was just sex, and this kind of sex Peter was very good at, so he might as well let Stiles' in on a few secrets while on the path of his own pleasure.

Stiles was lying on his stomach,his legs apart, but Peter shoved them back together. Some things were worth building to. The boy also still had his boxers on, which Peter took great glee in slowly tugging them down to reveal the globes of the teen's arse.

It was fucking gorgeous. "Fuck you have a sweet arse." he muttered, pushing his palm up into the bubble curve of one cheek, enjoying the way the supple flesh pushed back against his hand. "No wonder you're so fucking skinny, you're keeping all your body fat down here."

"You gonna' get doing something, or are you planning on asking my arse out on a date or somethin'?"

"Shh-shh, some things are worth the wait darling. Now, try and keep quiet for a few minutes, although I'm aware that's particularly difficult for you."

"Fuck you fam, I swear down—"

Peter pressed one hand between the boy's shoulder blades—his favourite place to put his hands during sex—and pressed the slight boy down to the bed.

"I said shhh, this is new-ish, I want you to pay attention to what you like."

He let his thumb trace the boy's spine a few times in what he hoped was a calming manner, before dragging his hand down to the top of the boy’s cleft. Although he could have spent much longer just massaging the enjoyable globes in front of him, he took note of Stiles’ first-time nerves in regards to the act, and slipped his thumb between to reveal the fluttering hole.

Peter knew that his stubble must have just enough bite to it when he dipped his head forward to rub his jaw against the boy and received an answering squeak. He was going to enjoy seeing that skin rubbed a raw pink later, he thought to himself, before shifting his hand so his—dry—index finger graced easily over the boy’s entrance. The pink flesh fluttered enticingly under the pressure of his finger, and he refrained from pushing too hard, instead enjoying the minute vibrations incurred from his teasing ministrations. After a few minutes of teasing, Peter followed the motion by dragging the two curves of the boy's arse apart so he could—finally—drag the pointy hard tip of his tongue over the hole.

Stiles whined noisily above him, trying to edge his legs apart so more of Peter's tongue could get to him, but Peter didn't let allow it, straddling the boy's legs so they were locked between his own. He flicked his tongue against the rim again, catching it on the edge so it was tugged open in small jabs, and allowing one of his thumbs to swipe up every three or so licks, to pass through the wetness that was now collecting over the boy’s hole.

“Fuck!” Stiles shouted when Peter finally eased his thumb inside alongside his tongue.

It was satisfying for Peter to play with Stiles' body, wring out all the different noises just by using his lips, tongue, and at the odd time, teeth. The lube he had purchased earlier that day was laying on the bed, a cloying cherry flavour (more apt now, he realised, than when he bought it) and he liberally added it to his fingers so as to smooth the journey inside Stiles some more.

The boy was swearing litanies now, mostly insults at Peter—amusing in its own way, but unsurprising—and still trying to edge his legs open to gain more contact. Peter held him still all the same—he enjoyed the image of Stiles looking slightly trapped, as well as the physical need to drag the boy's arse open to gain access to the hole. It was gratifying and visceral, the kind of sight he enjoyed to see. Peter wasn’t above seeing his bedmates as prey, and that was best enjoyed when they were squirming under him.

When Stiles began to chant the same words over and over again, "I need more, fuck, I need more, I need— I need." Peter finally gave in and let the boy shift one leg up to increase access. He knelt up himself, using his slicked fingers to dive into the boy’s hole at an exciting pace, darting across the boy's prostate on each push in.

He didn't jerk the boy off though, instead fumbling with the bottle so that enough lube slipped onto his left hand, and just slipped it under the boy's hips so his hand was cupping the erection loosely. Stiles went crazy, desperate for the friction, and humped at the slick hand, the boy's erection dragging erratically across the sticky palm with each thrust.

"Fuck yeah, you're a dickhead, ya'know. Just let me, just let me cum," the boy panted. Instead Peter just replaced his lips on the boy's entrance, and returned to licking at the now-quivering hole. It only took a few minutes from then for the teen to climax, Stiles had already been hard from giving head to Peter earlier, and the new sensations and deft expertise of Peter eating him out dragged him to the edge.

While Stiles was finally close enough to the end that he was whining, Peter let his thumb push carefully into the sensitive bollocks that were now tight against Stiles' body. "FUCK! Fuck, fuck—there, there, there!" Stiles swore, his thrusting now ramming his body back onto Peter's tongue and maddeningly into the man's palm.

Peter didn't stop licking until Stiles had finished pulsing cum into his palm. He rubbed his jaw on the pillowy flesh of Stiles' arse, and then gave it a gentle slap in satisfaction.

"I hope that left an impression." he murmured, his voice a little rough from not using it over the past half hour.

Stiles was not quite able to keep up his normal chatty game—he mumbled something into the bed covers that was definitely an insult and involved the word "cunt" somewhere.

Peter just smirked, leaning down to grab his discarded trousers from earlier so he could snag the condom he had left in the pocket.

"You sounded very pleased during, anyway." He rolled the condom on and allowed his prick to rub against the now-puffy flesh of Stiles' abused hole. His erection had thoroughly returned, and he was very keen to experience the spoils of his hard work.

"Pisser," Stiles' groaned, shuffling his body around and whining high in his throat, "you want to do it right now?"

"Yes."

"You're a twat. A mean fuckin’ cunt innit. You don't kick a man when he's down blud."

Peter dipped his hips lightly, his prick not quite making it inside, but sliding back and forward through the fluid that decorated Stiles' entrance.

"Don't worry darling, I definitely don't plan on kicking you. FUCK, there we go," he moaned, when the pressure finally caused his cock to pop inside through the tight—but wet—hole, "You look good like this, vulnerable and less like you're trying to stab someone."

"I’m fuckin’ about to shank someone, christ, yeah, ok, OK, ok."

Peter had a lot of mercy for the boy below him, and his own recent climax meant that a slow build was definitely on the cards, but that didn’t mean he was above enjoying Stiles pitiful mewling that took over from the sharp insults now that Peter was working his cock inside the over sensitised flesh.

“That’s it,” Peter mused, leaning forward so he could grasp the boy’s hands in his own, their fingers threaded together. “You can take it.”

He allowed his body to dip down over Stiles', his chest to the boy's back, and his own arms framed the slighter boy's head. The height disparity between them meant that Peter had to stretch the boy’s arms above his head slightly so he could completely cover him. Stiles moaned loudly as the changed position meant that Peter's prick slipped further inside him, the girth of which was much wider than the fingers that had previously opened him up.

"Fu-uck you're big." Stiles' muttered, taking in deep lungfuls of air.

"Shhh-shh-sh. Just stay still, I'm not going to fuck you hard until you're ready, ok? Just take it like this, nice and gentle." Peter was gyrating his hips, barely moving his cock in-and-out, and instead making circles of eight, that messaged the abused entrance of Stiles' body whilst supplying pleasure to Peter's heavy cock inside of the boy.

"You can take it, you look so good like this, just keep breathing." Stiles' breathing had hitched up a little too much due to the stimulation—and although Peter definitely had an affinity to tears from his partners—he would have to stop if Stiles actually felt too overwhelmed. Mercifully, after a few moments Stiles' calmed down again and returned to his mewling.

Peter stuck to his slow pace for almost an hour, one of the perks of being older and more experienced at sex: no more trigger finger cumming. He knew how to put stamina and pleasure before instant satisfaction. Stiles' however appeared to still be at the quick regeneration times and need for instant gratification period of life though, as it only took him ten minutes or so from the beginning to start shuffling under Peter trying to get more stimulation.

"Fuck yeah, fuck me harder." He'd begun enthusiastically, endearingly hopeful that as soon as he was ready Peter would pick up the pace.

"I appear to have failed to have taught you the benefits of waiting for pleasure."

"Fuck blud, I can take it."

"Good to know, but how about you tell me how it feels exactly?"

"Fuckin' torture man, speed up!"

"No, exactly how it feels."

Stiles' was silent for a moment, aside from breathy little gasps each time Peter slipped past something particularly enjoyable.

"You want me to chat dirty?"

"Mmmmmh. I hear enough filth from your mouth, it might as well be worth something."

Stiles, shameless as ever, rose to the challenge.

"You have a huge fuckin' dick blud. Like, legit man, it is a fuckin' monster."

Peter wrinkled his nose at the lack of finesse in Stiles’ words, although his dick did a healthy twitch of enjoyment all the same from the grotesque compliments. “Can you feel it, heavy, inside of you?”

Stiles moaned loudly at that, bucking back a few times. “Yeah, yeah, I can. I want it harder. I can feel it right up in my fucking gut.”

“You’re so wet for me baby.” Stiles whined a little at the endearment, and Peter filed the reaction for use later, “Each time I fuck into you I can feel it trickling down your thighs.”

“Please fuck me. Please fuck me. I’ll be good.” Stiles had started begging, and Peter could feel his restraint finally fraying. “I’ll be so good. It’ll feel so good, having you fuck your cum into me. I’ll be good, you can pin me down until I can’t think of anything but your dick in me.”

Stiles was manipulating him, the quick minded little shit had caught on quick to Peter’s domination streak and was playing straight into his fantasies. It was fucking glorious. Peter didn’t even bother being stubborn, he just gripped Stiles’ hips and dragged him up onto his knees.

“Fuck! You little whore. You want it so bad don’t you.” Between Stiles’ slight frame, and Peter’s barely concealed aggression, he could drag the boy back onto his cock like the teen was nothing but a doll. The sound of wet, fast, fucking filled the room, Stiles’ arse slapping against Peter’s thighs as the man jackknifed into him.

“Can you cum for me baby?” Peter bit out, sliding a hand around Stiles, so he could grasp the teen’s prick in his hand. The boy was conservatively endowed, and Peter’s hand was considerable in size, meaning he could easily make a fist over the majority of it, while pushing his thumb into the sensitive ridge of the head. “‘Are you going to mess yourself all over my hand?”

“Christ! I’m gonna’ cum. Yeah, YEAH, there! There!” Peter could feel the boy’s prick vibrate in his hand, his fingers coated in slick as the boy bucked forward in pleasure.

When Peter was certain in the boy’s successful climax, he let himself focus solely on his own. Stiles had gone boneless again, his body slumped forward, so his back had to bend luridly to keep his hips up. The boy was making those mewling sounds again, telling Peter that he was overly sensitive and that the man’s cock was just too much. It was almost enough, Peter slid his soiled hand out from the boy, snaking it up the boy’s back—so as to mark him with his own release—before gripping the boy’s neck harshly. If the teen had enough hair, he would have gripped it and used it to pull the body back onto his prick, but instead he just pinned the boy beneath him, crushing him just enough that teen went silent.

“You look so good under me. You were fucking made to take dick. Fuck! That’s it, take my dick. Fucking take it!” Peter growled as he came, his eyes darting down to watch his cock repeatedly disappear into the puffy pink hole, twitching mulishly around the intrusion.

Finally when his body abated in its need to drive forward, he released the boy. He collapsed onto his back beside him, panting, while gripping his cock at the base so as to ensure the condom stayed on when leaving the body that was beneath him.

Stiles was still whining a little beside him, dragging in gulps of air after the assault on his airways.

Peter let his eyes drag over the teen’s form and spat out a curse word again, “Fucking christ, you look like a fucking picture of inequity.”

“Shut the fuck up man. No long words after sex.”

Peter pulled the teen onto his chest, maneuvering the slight boy so he could thrust his tongue into the lax mouth.

“Debauchery incarnate. Deterrent of absolution. Amour fou, l’appel du vide…” he faux-whispered.

“Urgheedd, you stuck up dickhead. You and you pissin’ fancy words—” Stiles’ own words were slurred with exhaustion, and he put up very little fight to collapsing on top of Peter. “Zamknij sie dupek..”

“Did you just speak Russian to me?”

“Odpierdol sie chuju bo ci zapierdole. I ain't no Russian. Polish, you fucker.”

“You speak Polish?”

“Did I stutter blud?”

Peter found his curiosity piqued, like he’d discovered that his new toy did an interesting trick he hadn’t expected.

“Tell me how to say something in Polish.”

“Idiota—it means idiot.”

“That’s not very complicated.

Stiles eyes were closed now, and his limbs had lost all their tension as his body began to shut down for sleep.

His final words were almost completely mumbled by sleep: “It don’t have to be complicated, brapp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> [spoilers]
> 
> As always, there's age disparity hear, and maybe some level of asymmetrical power dynamics.  
> Strangers meeting up in hotels for sex is always dangerous, and Peter is happy to play out some of his kinks with Stiles.  
> Stiles is portrayed in this fic as fully capable to voice is dissent to anything he dislikes, but it's good to note that some of Peter's behaviour can be seen as dub-con if that wasn't the case.
> 
> \-------
> 
> Glossary:  
> "What's Guanine" - means "what's going on".  
> "bare tings" - means "lots of things"  
> "brapp" - onomatopoeic sound for gunfire, meant to be celebratory. Is used in a variety of ways.  
> "Amour fou" - French phrase “insane love"  
> "l’appel du vide" - French phrase "the call of the void"  
> "Zamknij sie dupek" - Polish for "shut up arsehole"  
> "Odpierdol sie chuju bo ci zapierdole" - Polish for "fuck off you dick" or "I'll fuck you up"
> 
> \----------------
> 
> This scene was truly just one big sex scene, but right now, that is all Peter & Stiles are too each other, so it made sense.  
> I positively live for comments on my fics, so please do say what you thought of it. Kudos are appreciated too, they go towards Stiles' Reebok original tracksuit bottoms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellohello. And welcome to chapter 4 of what I call chav!fic.  
> As you can see, the plot is starting to hit a little harder in this fic, so, strap in and enjoy the ride.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has encouraged me on this fic btw. I love writing about London, and Britain in general, so it's nice to see so many enthusiasts. And thank you to all the non-British people have struggled through the language in this fic. 
> 
> See end for warnings (with spoilers).

They did not sleep the night through; in fact, Peter woke merely an hour or so later when Stiles had slid out from the bed. The teen did not appear to care about waking Peter, his nonchalance apparent when he kneed Peter in the stomach a few times as he went. Peter, a reasonably light sleeper at the best of times anyway, open his eyes curiously to watch the slighter boy snag his trouser garments on the way towards the ensuite.

 

He watched, bemused, as Stiles stood nude with the door open, and pissed in the toilet - throwing Peter a wink when he noticed his audience - so Peter had the bizarrely delightful view of the naked boy pissing.

 

When he was done, the boy retrieved his cigarettes and lighter, before hopping up onto the sink counter and cracking the window open, allowing him to smoke a cigarette without the fear of sparking the room’s smoke detector.

 

They were making eye contact now, Stiles sitting with one leg hitched up to his chest, giving Peter just enough of a view of his arse, and a fair view of his not-quite-soft prick laying on his thigh.

 

It gave Peter’s own erection a bit of a wake up.

 

“Touch yourself.” He called, his voice rough from sleep, and causing it to dip even deeper in tone.

 

Stiles eyes were twinkling with violence and mischief, dramatically hollowing his cheeks every time he sucked in a breath of smoke.

 

“You gonna’ follow through fam?” He quipped back, letting his spare hand cup his prick.

 

“I want to watch you cum over yourself.”

 

Stiles let out a trill of laughter, more genuine than Peter would have expected, and he decided he enjoyed the sound.

 

“You’re jokes mate. Can you even get it up again, old man?” His teasing didn’t stop him from firming up his own erection, his dick - although short in length - plumping up quickly, as Stiles’ quick fingers worked over the head.

 

“Possibly. I’m more interested in seeing your stomach looking as filthy as your mouth sounds.”

 

“You slagging out my mouth blud?”

 

“I don’t even know what that means… Slow your hand down. That’s it, slow enough I can see the tip of your prick each time.”

 

Stiles managed to uphold his impression of composure for a few more minutes, finishing his cigarette in a leisurely fashion as he slowly jerked himself off. But it didn’t take too long before the stimulation was enough for him to throw the butt into the shower stall, and begin going at it in earnest.

 

“Slow down.” Peter commanded.

 

“Nah fam, I’m close.”

 

“Exactly, what have I taught you about things being worth waiting for?

 

“You taught me you’re a posh entitled git. And I ‘aint slowing down unless you come over here and lend a hand.”

 

Peter considered this for a moment, his own erection had decided that it was interested in the proceedings (unsurprising really, with such sights in front of him) and he slipped out of the bed.

 

Stiles, in all his inelegance, let his eyes dart down to Peter’s dick. It was thick and definitely inflated, but not to the extent it did anything but hang sullenly.

 

“Nah fam, you’re beat. That ‘aint even a bit awake. You lookin’ to score some blue pills? I know a guy who can getcha some real strong ones.”

 

Peter shut the boy up with a kiss, slipping his tongue into a mouth that was bitter with nicotine, while transferring the boy’s hands to his own erection. He manipulated Stiles’ fingers until one was holding the base tightly, and the other was roughly pulling his foreskin just past the ridge of his head, and back again. The contact allowed the appendage to fill more rapidly with blood, and bob to a more risen angle from his body.

 

Peter broke the kiss.

 

“That more to your liking?” He asked.

 

“Maybe. Doesn’t help me get off doe.”

 

“Ah, my apologies. It appears I have been remiss in my repayment of your recent oral forays. Let me remedy the situation.”

 

“What the fuck are you even sayin’ blud.”

 

Peter sighed in a put upon manner, before kneeling down in front of the teen.

 

“I said you’re about to get a blow job, you lexically challenged reprobate.”

 

“Fuck, ok. Ok, yeah, put my dick in your mouth.”

 

Stiles had already successfully put himself close to the edge, so as soon as the teen’s prick fell onto his tongue, the bitter-sweet taste of precum filled Peter’s mouth. Peter had been having sex for many years now, and giving head was something that improved with practice. Ergo, Stiles was moaning noisily in moments, his hands twisting ineffectively in Peter’s hair, as he tried to rut into the man’s mouth.

 

Due to Stiles conservative endowment, the length wasn’t too much of a threat for choking him. But a dick is a dick when it’s in your throat, so Peter controlled Stiles’ ability to thrust with two strong hands on his hips. Keeping the thrusting movements to a minimum until it was clear that Stiles’ was close enough that rapid momentum was worth it.

 

“Fuck, fuck yeah. Let me cum, _let me,_ I’m cumming. I’m cumming. Fuck-fuck-yeah.”

 

It was only a few moments later that Peter was swallowing down a mouthful of cum. The engagement had thoroughly revitalised him, ensuring even his past-the-thirty-mark body was eager to cum again. Peter returned to standing in front of Stiles, who let his now orgasm-exhausted body collapse forward in pleasure onto the man, before grasping the teen’s hands again and using them to roughly jerk off roughly with.

 

Peter himself was not interested in long drawn out pleasure at this time, instead he established a punishing pace over his prick, while cupping the boy’s jaw and penetrating the law mouth with his thumb.

 

The image was attractive and visceral enough that he found himself cumming over his own and Stiles’ hands - the excess smearing across Stiles’ quivering stomach muscles - within minutes.

 

“Well-” he bit out finally. “-That was worth the £60 quid for the room.”

 

“What about last night?”

 

“Exactly. The rest was all pure profit.”

 

“If you’re throwin’ cash around blud, it should be me and not the bloody hotel that gets it.”

 

“You, my delightfully eastern european delinquent, have already been rewarded with a generous number of orgasms. It’s the hotel that has to wash the sheets that you’ve soiled.”

 

Stiles was still leaning against him, his words as bitter and sharp as always, but his posture in that moment of softness that physical ecstasy often wrought.

 

At Peter’s endearments, however, he picked himself up and flipped the man off.

 

“I ‘aint delightful. I’m fuckin’ hench badman.  I could fuck you up, swear down.”

 

Although there were definitely times where Stiles’ threats _were_ worth heeding (especially if he was holding the sharp little pen knife he kept squirreled away in his trackies) however when it was at the time where the teen was naked, and his mouth was crooked into a lazy post-sex grin, Peter felt particularly nonplussed.

 

Later, when they had both showered (separately, as Peter was actually planning to get home that night, and he really didn’t think his dick could take a fourth round in such short succession) Peter began riffling through his old phone (or Stiles’ phone, as he realised that it was actually easier to let the teen keep it, than organise them trading numbers). He spent the last moments of them being together deleting any pertinent information about himself off the device. Stiles however had reached that jumpy level of talkativeness. Where his body was practically thrumming with energy, and his word choices had fallen down a rabbit hole of colloquialisms.

 

“What’s your job then?” He finally snapped, as if frustrated his other topics hadn’t piqued Peter’s interest enough to goad him into a conversation.

 

“I teach English language at degree level, primarily an etymologist.”

 

Stiles creased his brows for a second before kneeling up suddenly with excitement.

 

“I got one for you then. Do bugs sleep?”

 

“What?”

 

“Do they sleep. Like, innit yeah, I was kickin’ ‘bout some of these rocks and the louse were under one, and they just fuckin’ scattered, like the pigs were on them, you get me? And I was thinkin’, was they asleep? Did I just wake them up? Or was they doin’ bug stuff under there and I came about and started on them?”

 

“Do bugs sleep? Why - why do you think- Wait, are you thinking of _entomologist_ ? How do you even know what _that_ means?”

 

The excitement on Stiles’ face dropped, and he scowled at Peter, his shoulders rising up in defense.

 

“What the fuck do _you_ mean? I know words blud, I ‘aint fuckin’ stupid. Yeah, I might ‘av mixed them up, but I know things. I went to fucking school, I swear down blud, you’re asking to get fucked up - what the fuck, just ‘cause I ‘aint got no fancy degree like you, don’t mean I’m fuckin’ stupid.”

 

Stiles’ body language was suddenly incredibly defensive, the lines of his limbs now hard and tensed. It was only now that violence and anger had returned to his expression, that Peter realised how relaxed the boy had been all that evening.

 

“Look - I didn’t mean to insinuate anything.”

 

“Fuck off blud. You aint chatting your fancy words, with your minted bollocks degree, changing what I know you said.”

 

Volatile. That’s the words Peter would use to describe Stiles. A toxic combination of chemicals that alone you could deal with, but one step too far had them flying into a caustic mix. It was like dealing with a rottweiler, that was trying to decide whether barking at you was enough, or if it needed to take out a few bites of your flesh just to push the point home.

 

Peter sighed. It was a shame that the evening had ended on a bitter note.

 

“I’m going to go.” Stiles winced at his words, opening his mouth to say something, before deciding to keep it shut.

 

“I’m also going to leave _this_ -” he deposited the phone on the bed, “-here.” Stiles quick eyes followed it, his expression distrustful.

 

It was supposed to be an olive branch, an ‘Even though I should never see you again, I’m going to facilitate our ability to communicate still’ gesture.

 

Peter then walked to the door.

 

“I’ll look into the bug thing for you.” He said, before leaving the boy standing there scowling at him, and walking down the hall to the lift.

 

He’d said it to maybe make Stiles smile and dissolve back into his easy-going nature from before, or at least break out of his anger. In hindsight, he probably sounded patronising.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter texted him a few days later and received no reply. It was an odd thing. Peter spends so much of his time fiercely protecting his ability to control situations, that having such a wild card in his life - one that he cannot predict or force to behave how he wants it to - was irritating.

 

A week after that, and a bottle of red wine into an evening, while Peter was thinking about hooking up with a women he had met at a book signing earlier that day, he tried texting Stiles again. Something a bit lewd and sex orientated.

 

He doesn’t get a response, but he didn’t notice it straight away as Yavonne (blonde, leggy and drinks her G&Ts with cucumbers not limes) had called him saying that she was getting a taxi back to her place and he was welcome to join.

 

A week after that he gets a disgruntled call from his nephew saying he tried calling Peter’s mobile and was subjected to abuse from whomever answered. It had brought a smile to his face, imagining Derek trying to wrangle an answer from Stiles on why he was answering what was supposed to be Peter’s phone. But at the same time, it’s a bit of a sour feeling. He forgets about it.

 

Or at least tries to. He was at yet another staff social event - this one some fund raiser for a research project that has absolutely nothing to do with Peter’s own discipline, but Alan had demanded that he supports other’s work if he wanted financial support for his own - and thus he was trying his hardest not to throttle anyone. Which means he only just managed not to, and drank all the wine available to him.

 

At least Lydia had been there this time. She, unlike everyone else, had the decency to openly hate him, which was always entertaining. Thanks to a slight indiscretion on her part when first joining the team (or, more importantly, thanks to Peter knowing where the best places to go to have a covert drink in the graduates’ library, which just so happened to be where Lydia was fucking her then boyfriend in a ‘I got a good job’ fit of celebratory giddiness.) Peter owned enough blackmail against her that his work was always dealt with first when running through the translation department that she head up. It was a good deal. She hated him and did everything she could to make him miserable, he had someone to spar with, and got his transcripts back first.

 

“You look awful Peter. I think all that wine has finally ruined you.”

 

“I look amazing. I still have less than 10% body fat, and a jawline that could cut glass. You, however, have put weight on on your thighs, meaning you can’t wear your pencil skirts anymore.”

 

“Wrong. I’ve lost weight off my thighs, hence why I’m wearing dresses than can blow up slightly in the wind. You’re also becoming less perceptive. Maybe it’s your brain that the wine has ruined.”

 

It was nice to be around people who understood you at least.

 

“Did you fuck that guy in the chemistry department in the end?”

 

“No, I’m back with Jackson, you know that.”

 

“Oh yes, how is he? Did he ever get that mole removed from his-”

 

“Good evening Mr Hale, Ms Martin. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

 

“-of course Alan! Ms Martin and I have already begun curating a new time table for the English Language and Translation department project for next term. Isn’t it wonderful when inter-department cooperation works!”

 

Lydia shot him a scowl, before turning her gaze to Deaton, “Mr Deaton, thank you again for hosting us. Did you get my email? About how the next interdispline affiliation swaray should be between the Chemistry department and the various Language schools?”

 

“I did, in fact, I had a young gentleman from the biochemistry department who was very eager to begin arranging it. Wonderful to see.”

 

Peter snorted a laugh, and mouthed the word ‘slut’ to Lydia over Deaton’s shoulder.

 

“That is fantastic. We’ll need more than just one biochemist however! Peter - you don’t look busy, why don’t you find us some more budding scientists.” She purred.

 

“Oh, trust me. I’m very busy. In fact, I was recently reviewing the security tapes in the library…”

 

“Come on now Peter.” Alan intervened, “There’s Mr. Knightley now, from the school of zoology.”

 

That was how Peter found himself, once again, stuck in a dull conversation, with a dull academic, itching to get his phone out and find anything to do - even if that was beating himself to death with it.

 

“-and entomology shouldn’t really within the school of zoology of course, it’s a science in itself!”

 

“Sorry, did you say you’re an entomologist?”

 

The man in front of him squinted a little at Peter, confused that the English professor would only now ask that question, after the man had clearly been discussing the subject for a good five minutes.

 

“Well. Yes, that is what I’d call myself.”

 

“Outstanding.” Peter said, “Unbelievable really.”

 

“Well yes! But it’s important that us subspecialists carve an identity for ourselves!”

 

“No, you see. I’m an etymologist.” 

 

“Ah! So you also understand the need for distinction in a field.”

 

“The two titles sound quite similar, quite easy for people to get mixed up.”

 

“I’m sorry, come again?”

 

“Never mind that. I have a question. An insect question that I’ve been meaning to find an entomologist for. Do insects sleep?”

 

The man had given Peter a suspicious look, as if unsure whether Peter was being serious. Which was paramount to hilarious to Peter, seeing how that question would have been the first time Peter had been sincere during their entire interaction.

 

“Well, yes, in a sense. Especially seeing how scientists have yet to empirically define sleep across other animals uniformly, you could call the stasis that many insects go into ‘sleep’. Really it’s what we call Torpor. Where they shut down their bodies and do not respond to the majority of stimuli.”

 

“Fantastic. Can you, say it again, but break it down into small chunks. So I can write it down in my phone.”

 

The man in question had suddenly became very enthused, now convinced that Peter really was interested in his passion. An hour long conversation later, and twelve invites to separate different talks and lectures on insect inactivity periods, Peter had what he wanted.

 

He bowed out the conversation with a, “Do mention to Alan Deaton that we spoke - oh and, if you could forward all other insect related updates to my colleague Lydia Marin, that’d be great.”

 

And Peter was free to swipe some wine and swan off to his office.

 

He was definitely a bit drunk now, which probably explained his eagerness to talk about insect sleep cycles. He also found it quite funny that whereas the last time he had snuck off to his office to text Stiles it was to elicit filthy pictures from the boy, this time it was about insects.

 

To Reprobate: “Bugs do sleep. Although it isn’t the same as human sleep. Bugs either sleep during the day and wake up at night, or sleep during the night and are awake during the day. Scientists call it Torpor.”

 

He hit send, and then thought about it some more. It was ridiculous that he was still trying to engage Sties. Truly, he should have been the one to curtail their communications. But something about the foul mouth miscreant fed his more animalistic and primitive side. Peter had never been a careful man, in fact, many people would probably call him self destructive. But he had always been very good at only cultivating relationships with people he could control the intimacy with. Choosing when he had them at arm's length, and which bits and sides to him they could access. There was no worry of Peter becoming _close_ to Stiles (come on now, don’t be daft, look at who he was, and who Peter was. The idea was laughable) but Stiles was  volatile. He was quick, and sharp, and fast to trust and then equally trigger happy to turn on you. Peter had no failsafes when it came to interacting with the boy, as he’d come through whatever wall Peter tried to conceal him in - with a wrecking ball no doubt it - that much was for certain.

 

All the same. Playing with fire was worth it when it made you feel alive. It felt good to reveal to someone his darker less refined side, the bits of himself that had always made him stick out like a sore thumb when with his family. The motivation to be sarcastic and surly with his co workers, lest they discover how truly uncouth his ambitions could be. Stiles was a release from that act.

 

He decided to at least attempt to engage the youth again, even if it was only with the end of acquiring more photographs.

 

To Reprobate: “Sorry it took so long to find out. I’ve got a question for you now, an etymology question (you’re right by the way, quite similar sounding) what does ‘brapp’ mean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> [Spoilers]
> 
> Very little new here. Strong language and some enthusiastic sex. Age dynamics, as always, present.  
> Also, a lot of wine drinking.  
> \----
> 
> I was a little unsure about Peter's sloppy monologue at the end there. I'm much more of a shower, than a teller plot wise. But, he was a bit drunk, and I felt like Peter legit needed to have an internal conversation with himself over the choice to chase Stiles a little bit. Plus, as I said, he's a bit drunk & melodramatic. 
> 
> Also, I fell utterly inlove with their weirdly intimate/hot naked morning together. The refractory periods and taking a piss in the middle of the night. I hope you liked it too.
> 
> \---  
> Glossary:  
> "minted" - means rich.  
> "hench" - means well built/strong enough to be dangerous.  
> "fam" - short for family. Like 'blud', which comes from blood brothers. It originally was meant to be friendly, but is more of a casual way to refer to someone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles are talking again, in fact, now they can't really stop talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself I wouldn't put up any of these updates until I finished up my other fics, but I just had such a strong chav!fic urge, that I thought I'd share this with you all. 
> 
> Warnings (with spoilers) at end, as well as glossary of all terms that Yanks might not understand.

Much to Peter's ego - and if he was going to be completely honest (which only happened when he'd had over a bottle of wine) his emotional sensibilities - relief, Stiles responded to him that very night. At first it was just a cheeky photo of him grinning in a mirror from some grimly lit night club. In the background he could see a man pissing, and Stiles wearing a truly atrocious 'flat peek' hat, that still had its tag on it. Upon looking on it, Peter felt revolted and something akin to satisfaction: the renegade youth was still predictably degenerate.

 

They texted a few times that night, Stiles mostly trying to convince Peter to make his way to Dalston to suck his cock. And Peter almost considering it, before realising that he was already going to be hung over for a 9am lecture the following day. He almost felt like a youth tossing up the worthiness of his education and a good night out, until he realised he was in fact an adult, and he was the one giving the lecture.

 

He fobbed Stiles off with a promise of a night of phone sex if the boy could get himself somewhere quiet enough for Peter to talk him through pushing three fingers into himself. (Stiles had found somewhere quiet, but Peter wasn't entirely sure how private it was.)

 

Three nights later, Peter managed to convince Stiles to head over to Chelsea (“Fuck off cunt, they aint gonna’ let me in.” “Just put on some jeans and a polo shirt. I’ll bribe the bouncer.”) So he could fuck Stiles in a stall of the men’s loos of an ‘up market’ cocktail bar. Peter was trashed on expensive champagne, and had had Stiles up against the stall wall in seconds. The teen didn’t seem to mind, using his arms to cushion his head, and pushing his arse out to meet Peter as the man divested him of his trousers. Peter had barely gotten his cock out and wrapped in plastic, before he was pushing it into the tight heat of Stiles’ body. The man’s teeth dug deeply into the boy’s neck, as he vigorously thrusted in the boy. He came quickly - champaign did that too him - but he kept his prick in the boy, thrusting in slowly and muttering filth in the boy’s ear while a hand jerked the teen off to completion. The place was up market, but Peter doubted it was the first time cum has splattered the cubicle's wall.

 

Afterwards there’d been an awkward moment when Peter wasn’t sure if he was supposed to offer to stay with Stiles for the rest of the night, but the boy had brought about £250 worth of cocaine with him, and had plans to sell it to people in the bar. This quickly turned out to include Peter’s would-be associates for the night, which Peter took a small amount of comfort in the fact that they all thought Stiles was his dealer, opposed to - quite accurately - some chav twink he was fucking. Although that didn't stop him feeling a twinge of regret when the boy disappeared into the night, and Peter had only gotten one round out of him.

 

In general however, their communication picked up after their quarrel. They ended up having a handful of phone conversations that weren't always purely on the topic of filth, and Stiles seemed to text him any and every observation he made on a given day. Which inevitably led to Peter finding at least one or two of them interesting - or bloody bizarre - enough to reply and be enticed into a conversation.

 

Peter wouldn't really describe their communication as constant, as he spent long stretches of days just too busy to stay glued to his phone. April always was a busy time in England: tax years coming to a close, local and mayoral elections popping up all round the country, students of all ages facing final exams and essay deadlines. But Peter wasn't completely opposed from mixing business and pleasure. This included one particularly memorable night from a trustees away day for a board Peter sat on for a boarding school for delinquent teens (yes, the irony) which included a lot of wine, video chat, and a frightfully large mobile bill in the post. Peter couldn't really bring himself to mind however, it saved on the inevitable awkwardness that would have occurred if he’d given in and slept with one of his co-trustees  instead (nothing can ruin a charities chances, than a man's ego bruised. He had learnt that the hard way.)

 

The next time Peter saw Stiles properly in person it was in another hotel room; planned as a celebratory reward for his recent invitation to give a set of lectures. Or as Peter titled it in his diary "I survived going back to Oxford so will now fuck a twink." It didn't make a very neat acronym, but it made him smile whenever he looked at it.

 

Stiles had even managed to talk him into ordering a meal of dominoes pizza, and a side order of Carling for refreshments. He'd never fucked someone before who tasted like garlic mayo, but the novelty of it was at least gratifying.

 

"Mate, you can't fuckin' celebrate without dominos. It's like, patriotic, or somethin." Stiles had hyped over the phone.

 

"Dominos is American darling." Peter was on a train at the time, the Oxford to London journey wasn't a long one, but had to be caught from Paddington. That close to Hyde Park and the hotels weren't worth the hassle (tourists love Hyde Park) so Peter was going to return to his Bloomsbury turf for his rendezvous with the teen, the same hotel they'd met in the previous time. There was a woman sat opposite him on the train that was obviously interested in him, she'd made eyes at him a few times when he had been perusing his first edition Gaskell (his talk had been on the importance of stratified voices in the codification of language about society in the 19th century. Mrs Gaskell had been his centerpiece). At his use of the pet name she had raised an eyebrow, and glanced at his hands to check for a wedding band. Peter had had to smirk at that, the very idea that he'd have a tie that strong to Stiles laughable. In fact, he was almost lamenting being tied up that evening, seeing how she was obviously interested, and recognised canon literature when it was in front of her.

 

"Whatever, you should trust fam, I know how to celebrate."

 

"Oh really, pray tell." Peter didn't even feel the slightest bit guilty that he was currently eyefucking the women in front of him, she was probably late 20s - or like himself, a well refined thirty something - and she wore her crisp woollen skirt in cashmere white, as if she knew the power of her long legs on a man. Crossing her legs gently, to rearrange the paper on her lap, she began filling in the top line of a cross word.

 

Peter watched her, only half listening to Stiles on the phone. "Legit blud. You aint seen nothing, first up, you gotta get out of your suit. Cause I know you've been wearing it up in toff-land...." Peter completely zoned out from what the boy said, when he realised she was writing a mobile number. He grinned, positively mesmerized, that she'd so deftly proposition him when he was - for all she knew - talking to his other half.

 

Business women truly was his weakness - anyone who had the balls to deal with the testosterone fuelled London yuppy scene, knew what they wanted in the bedroom. Finding someone who knew how to meet him in the sack, was a rare gift.

 

"...and this kid is on his knees in front of me - you get me?"

 

"Wait, what? Who is in front of you?"

 

"Just this sket. I didn't pick him."

 

Peter closed his eyes suddenly, trying to dial back what into what they were talking about.

 

"Why are you telling me about you getting a blow job off some kid?" Something about the way Stiles had said it so casually had annoyed Peter.

 

"Blud, I told you. I know how to celebrate."

 

"And what exactly has this got to do with pizza?" Peter grabbed his coat from the rack above him, exiting the train as it pulled into Paddington.

 

"Because when I blew my load in his mouth, the pizza was still warm!"

 

Peter laughed suddenly, at the ridiculousness of it. He'd just forgotten about the - beautiful, intelligent, and obviously sexually mature - woman he'd met on the train, because he was so caught up in whatever Stiles - crass, immature, erratically dangerous child - was saying.

 

"That doesn't even make sense, you think pizza is good because you can't control how fast you orgasm?" Peter said with a smirk, it was a bit of a low blow - and Peter knew that his shortness was him sulking over Stiles ruining his moment on the train - but it didn't pack much of a punch since Stiles realised how much Peter enjoyed the boy's lack of control.

 

"Look fam, I got this. Just, buy the beers, I'll sort the rest."

 

The rest, unsurprisingly, was a small bag of weed, and two 10 inch pizzas with some kind of plastic looking meat on it. And by sort, Stiles meant that the pizza arrived just after Peter did, and it was up to him to pay for it. But, he didn't really complain, he was starving, and Stiles was sitting on the bed with his shirt off. Him stomach quivering as bits of molten hot cheese fell on him, it only took seconds for Peter to abandon his slice to chase them.

 

After the first round - quick and dirty hand jobs, where Peter could crush Stiles to the bed, and plunder the crass taste of takeaway out of his mouth - they returned to their deep fried meal.

 

For all Stiles' previous pizza orientated jabbering however, he couldn't help but notice that the teen had barely touched his second slice.

 

"You should eat more." He said, sipping his Carling, and reminding himself why he didn't bother drink to larger anymore.

 

"Is that a hint blud?" Stiles grinned, eyeing Peter's slightly interested erection. It'd been half hard since Stiles had suck their cum off Peter's fingers a few minutes before.

 

"No-" Peter reprimanded "-it's a comment on your Body Mass Index."

 

"Fam, I'm more interested in your body, my ass index." He said with a particularly pleased with himself grin, and he'd butchered the word 'arse' so he so that he sounded like a Yank.

 

"Oh. Don't, the only thing worse than a chav, darling, is a begotten Hick."

 

"Mate. I aint no chav, I'm G blud."

 

"Yes yes, you're very dangerous and wordly. I bet you've probably stabbed lots of people."

 

"You're jokes fam, you got bare jokes."

 

"Eat another slice and I'll eat you out."

 

"Fuck, yeah, ok badman."

 

* * *

 

 

The problem with the uptake in communication though, was that in response to being informed almost obsessively about the little quirks and idiosyncrasies of Stiles life, Peter inevitably felt the urge to recommend better habits for Stiles.

 

Peter sighed at his phone.

 

From Reprobate: gna c man bout a horse

 

From Reprobate: wnt sum?

 

From what Peter could tell, beyond weed and alcohol, Stiles didn’t actually consume drugs. He was unfortunately a runner for whatever small time drug cartel that fueled youth population’s party lifestyle. Meaning he was constantly picking up and dropping off X quantities of drugs across London. He didn’t appear to actually make much money from it, from what Peter could gather - which was probably a very good thing, as people who made decent money from drugs, often didn’t have a very long shelf life - and mostly did it for notiarity. “It’s all about your cred, blud. You get me? Man need contacts. Got bare mandam on my side.”

 

To Reprobate: As always, no thank you.

 

To Reprobate: Also, try not to get stabbed.

 

From Reprobate: y ud miss me? (;;;

 

To Reprobate: I’d miss your ability to bend over at a right angle.

 

From Reprobate: is dat a cute angle?

 

Peter snorted. Stiles’ wit was always sharper than he expected, albeit riddled with grammatical inconsistencies.

 

To Reprobate: Use those savvy mathematical skills in your drug trafficking, and you might make it home for tea tonight.

 

“Sorry for the wait Peter. Department of Livestock and Husbandry are keen to get me pinned down.” A portly man retook his seat adjacent to Peter, swilling his glass a few times to finish the scotch, before raising his arm at the nearest wait-boy.

 

“Another two fingers of the Talisker, James. Another for your Peter?”

 

“Make it the Dalmore.” Peter mused, glancing at his own almost empty glass.

 

“Peter, really. That stuff is basically fruit preserve.” He said with a chortle, “Go ahead James, put it all on my tab.”

 

“Of course, Mr Wyne-Upon-Tweed.” And the young man walked briskly out the room to fetch the drinks. Peter hadn’t known the boy’s name before his friend has used it, he didn’t patron the parliamentary drinking rooms as much as he used to. Primarily because one couldn’t spend longer than a minute in one without being coerced to run some form of office.

 

“Did you decide to chase up your Lords title in the end?” Mused his companion right on time, putting on airs of ignorance, when he knew well and good that Peter had not.

 

“No Terry. I’ve told you enough that all that stuffy white paper business bores me.” He rebuked with an eye roll. Sipping the last of his glass of Talisker single malt (12 years) that Terry has previously picked for him. The man was a good scotch drinker, although his tastes ran a little on the sour side compared to Peter’s own sweeter preferences.

 

Peter was having a drink in Westminster, copping to his Old Money legacy for the day, to do away with the stresses that a day of lecturing had begotten him.

 

“You’re more suited to the lords than a green bencher.” Snickered Terry in response to him.

 

“That was one bloody summer, and you know it Terry. Just a bout of student politics going to my head.” Peter bit back, attempting to sound extremely put upon.

 

“I thought you were trying to give Scargill a run for him money at the time!”

 

“Not everyone thinks the word union is a spectre Terry.” Wry grin was sauntering onto Peter’s lips all the same however.

 

“You’re just tempting me to call you a hobgoblin again Peter.”

 

Terry and Peter had become friends back at Oxford, after the man had written a truly scathing rebuke to Peter’s planned Direct Action in the college’s union. The aim was to try and keep the student led bar running out of the Junior Common Room (the main social space in each college) and Terry had included a rather amusing - if not straight out cruel - satire based on the original translation of the Communist Manifesto to English. Depictions of  Peter as a rowdy drunk hobgoblin and all. Peter had been so smitten by it, he’d framed it, and sent a copy home to his mother, before contacting the author - Terry - to congratulate him on his work. They’d hit it off so well that they decide to petition each of their own family’s estates to buy the bar, and even today there was a plaque with each of their names on it.

 

It was nice for Peter to still have some contact with people from his earlier life, a reminder that not everything from that part of his history was tarnished.

 

“Your wit is far less honed than it used to be Terry, must be all those boring forms you fill out now, over the inspirational editorial that was our old newspaper.”

 

“Come now Peter, when are you put down this silly teacher nonsense and come join me in government.” The man was bent on getting a straight answer from him.

 

“You know my name is far too short for politics Mr Terence Wyne-Upon-Tweed.”

 

“Lord Hale has always had a nice ring to it, suited your grandfather just fine. And you could always take on your mother’s name: Wolfdenhall-Hale.”

 

Peter wrinkled his nose, pleased that James had finally returned with their drinks, as it allowed him to pause in answering the question. He let his eyes coast over the snug drinking room, along the superb collection of Eames chairs closeted together, in intimate arrangements, that begot the atmosphere of secrecy. The fire prattled in the corner, forgiving the large windows that commanded the south wall of allowing so much heat to escape even on a bitter spring day. He could see his own parents sitting in here, drinking with colleagues, and political opponents, discussing what successes their children might one day have in a room like this. The whole idea of it was a hot knife to the throat.

 

“Terry, I did my bit.” He said when they were finally alone again, “I sent Derek your way when he was still at boarding school, and I read my letters and threaten people when they’re being insensible. But, that’s that. What’s with this baldry on you anyway, you sound like an American you lack so much subtlety.”

 

Terry burst out a laugh, wiping his eye a little too enthusiastically, before sighing with an eyeroll. “You can’t blame a man for trying, they’d eat you up. Would make my life a lot more easier.”

 

“Why, Thamesview dogging your mistress’s house again?” Terry gave him a dirty look.

 

“Thamesview are just where they’re supposed to be, thank you very much. Something you should bare in mind.”

 

“I know where Thamesview are Terry.”

 

“I don’t doubt it. It always made getting you to do anything you didn’t like hard.” Terry had always been a little bit bitter how well Peter kept up his relationship with MI5, to the extent that he’d once cornered him at a party, trying to get Peter to admit to being an asset.

 

“Can’t spook a spook Terry.”

 

“Is that you finally admitting to something?”

 

“I’d never admit to anything old friend.”

 

“You’re wasted out there. Those children don’t even know who they’re learning from.”

 

“That’s why I like it. That and I don’t even have to pretend to be sober.”

 

“Hahaha! You never change, you drunken troll.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Innit yeah, and I was like, I got bluey but that aint gonna’ cut it. You get me?”

 

It was a strange routine to have, weekday evenings, a bottle of red wine (South African, full bodied, not too dry), a handful of undergraduate essays in front of him (lots of words, little insight), and his phone headset on, with Stiles’ inanities rambling in his ear. On the other end, he could hear the plinking gunner sounds of a videogame, as Stiles sat playing some console on the other end. Peter was never entirely sure where Stiles was, he always appeared to be in another obscure hovel of London (anything that meant you got off the DLR and then had to walk, was practically wasteland in Peter’s opinion) and he’d never felt the urge to confirm whether Stiles actually had a fixed place of residence.

 

“Wait - no, you lost me again. What does bluey mean?”

 

“You know, five quid.”

 

“Ok, and why do you say bluey?”

 

Peter open his desk and got out a spare notepad he’d been using to track the eclectic language of the teen. On the left hand margin he wrote ‘bluey’.

 

“Cause they’re fuckin’ blue. Aint you s’pose to be smart old man.”

 

“Ah. So you mean a five pound note, is referred to as bluey.” He wrote that down on the right. “Why didn’t you say, ‘a fiver’?”

 

Stiles sucked his teeth loudly through the phone. The teen didn’t like it when Peter quized him over his word choices, even though the man has reassured him (after an argument where Stiles genuinely threatened to stab Peter) that it was genuine curiosity and not judgement that he asked. Stiles was a needy, attention starved, rottweiler, who positively thrived when given any form of attention. So he didn’t turn down Peter’s interest in his language choices, but he still got noticeably cagey. As if he still wasn’t sure that Peter wasn’t judging him, or calling him stupid.

 

“Like I said, they’re fuckin’ blue.”

 

“Ok, does it have any similarities to the Polish word for money?”

 

Stiles was always happier to talk about his Polish at least, delighting that he knew more about something language related than Peter did.

 

“Not really fam. Well.. Złoty mean gold, but they aint gold.”

 

“So you think there’s no relevance.”

 

“Nah, it’s just dosh blud. Mandem say bluey, I say bluey. You get me.”

 

“Indeed. Do go on, so your friend needed another ten pounds to afford his narcotics…”

 

“Mate! Allow me, he was fuckin’ gaggin’. His dealer all up in his face-”

 

Peter was very aware that Stiles heavily editorialised his stories for him. Partly because he wasn’t completely trusting that Peter wouldn’t one day report him and his friends to the police (“Why would I waste my time doing that?” “I got people on to me blud, I aint no fool.”) which was unsurprising, if not slightly ridiculous. The other parts, Peter was growing to realise, was when Stiles used sex as a negotiating factor during disputes.

 

It perturbed Peter, in two ways. The first that Peter would care at all, so what if the teen traded blow jobs for sanctury in East London estates, fidelity wasn’t really something that Peter could even fathom being related to their relations, which could be best summed up as: bad decisions, and flagellation. The second though, was a pinch of discomfort over the idea of Stiles needing to use sexual bribery as a mean to stay safe. It was why Peter felt himself creasing his brow whenever he heard of yet another drug running excursion Stiles had had to make.

 

“Can’t you just get a job, I don’t know, as paper boy or something?”

 

A trill of laughter split out through the phone. It was strange, Stiles found him hilarious, not sardonic and cruel - like most of the people he knew found him - but as if the things he said were worthy of genuine mirth. It had annoyed Peter until he realised how much he liked the sound.

 

“You’re jokes fam, blatz. What, on the back of me’ bmx?”

 

“Of course, or a Boris bike.”

 

Stiles laughed even more, the sound of videogame gunfire pausing, as if he’d put down the controller to laugh more fully. Peter felt a grin on his own face in response.

 

“Nah, nah mate. I’d ride one of your bikes. What d’ey called. Penny-fathering?”

 

“You little shit. It’s pennyfarthing, and they were Victorian.” Stiles’ eclectic collection of general knowledge, was also rather dumbfounding at times.

 

“Yeah, das right. Like I said, one of your bikes.” Stiles bit out amongst little giggles. “Nah, fam! Fam!” He shouted, as if Peter was threatening to not listen to him anymore, “I got one for you. I got some slang for you.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Like, if you want someone to fuck off. You say to them: ‘On ya’ bike!’”

  
It took about ten minutes for Stiles to stop laughing from that, and even then, Peter could barely get something intelligible out of him for the next hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, a few feelings appear to be slipping in. Anyone else notice it? (Hint: Peter isn't). I really enjoyed playing with Peter's back story in this chapter, I think Stiles' personality is also coming through a lot more now as well.
> 
> See below for the MASSIVE glossary of new terms. I've had a lot of people say they can't even read some of it, so I've upped it. 
> 
> PLEASE DO comment (and kudos) what you thought of it. Especially if you're not from Britain, getting feedback is wonderful. 
> 
> \---  
> Warnings [spoilers]:
> 
> Drug use, and selling. Use of the word cunt. Public sex. References/allusions to sex work. 
> 
> \---  
> Glossary:
> 
> Yuppy - a well-paid young professional who works a city job, often intended to mean ruthless.  
> Yank - An American, not always positive.  
> 'G' - means gangster, what most chavs refer to themselves as.  
> horse - ketamin.  
> see a man about a dog - going to do something illicit.  
> cred - reputation.  
> mandam - the people in the same gang as you.  
> Talisker & Dalmore - expensive scotch.  
> Old Money - older rich families who made money from land (landed gentry), oppose to trade (aka. Opposed to the middleclass.) Often accused of running Britain.  
> Green Bencher - someone who is an elected politician, sits in the house of commons oppose to the house of lords. (aka. the prime minister, and his ministers, and the shadow cabinet)  
> Scargill - Arthur Scargill, head of the coal miner's union, that famously striked and tried to bring socialism to Britain in the 80s.  
> Hobgoblin - an infamous translation of the word spectre in the first English translation of the Communist Manifesto.  
> Thamesview - home of MI5 in London  
> Spook/asset - spy, someone who works for MI5, or gives information to them.  
> Bluey - a fiver, typically a northern phrase, less common in London.  
> DLR - Docklands Light Railway, one of the newest tube lines, links in bits of London that are more industrial, cheaper in price.  
> Złoty - Polish money.  
> Dosh - money.  
> Allow me - forgive me, or literally, let me do this.  
> Blatz - blatantly.  
> Boris bike - the free bikes that can be used and rented around London, installed by London Mayor Boris Johnson.


End file.
